


Zugzwang

by Hinn_Raven



Category: Batgirl (Comics), Batman (Comics)
Genre: Batfamily (DCU), Brainwashing, Canonical Character Death, Cassandra Cain is Batgirl, Court of Owls, Fake Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Torture, Post-War Games (DCU), Stephanie Brown is a Talon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:49:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23882581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hinn_Raven/pseuds/Hinn_Raven
Summary: Stephanie Brown is dead at the hands of the Black Mask after War Games. Cassandra Cain knows this. So when the Court of Owls sends an assassin to kill Bruce Wayne, a Talon with long, blonde hair, Cass knows she’s just seeing ghosts… right?
Relationships: Cassandra Cain & Barbara Gordon, Cassandra Cain & Brenda Miller, Cassandra Cain & Bruce Wayne, Cassandra Cain & Crystal Brown, Cassandra Cain & Leslie Thompkins, Onyx Adam & Cassandra Cain, Stephanie Brown/Cassandra Cain
Comments: 66
Kudos: 198





	1. Opening Gambit

**Author's Note:**

> I love brainwashing, I love Stephanie Brown, and honestly it's just a surprise that I didn't find a way to combine these two tropes ages ago. 
> 
> Special thanks to renaroo on this one, who was my handy-dandy beta reader and emotional support person as I read War Games to prepare for writing this thing. 
> 
> Warnings for this one: We're dealing with the aftermath of War Games and associated events. So we're dealing with torture, violence, imprisonment, grief for Steph and Orpheus, a brief mention of canonical sexual assault (Dick's), mentions of a school shooting, an intentional drug overdose that could be read as a suicide attempt, mentions of attempted self harm, and implied homophobia, sexism, and slut shaming from background characters.

**_Then_ **

Everything is pain.

That’s the only thing she knows.

There is pain, and there is blood, and there is the light.

Something touches her forehead, and she bites her tongue to prevent herself from screaming, because she can’t remember what it is like to be touched, does not remember affection or kindness, remembers only the different kinds of pain.

“What a brute,” a voice says, and it’s not the voice of—she can’t remember, but the voice was bad, and there had been other voices once, and they hadn’t been as bad, so she tries to open her eyes, tries to see—she doesn’t know what, but maybe there’s something…

“But we can work with this,” a second voice says.

Voices, not familiar but—help? Maybe? She strains her arms, forgetting for a moment that her shoulders were dislocated, and she screams.

“She’s alive,” the first voice says, and—that’s her chin, the voice is holding her chin. “And here I thought the Mask sold us a body.”

“Still would have been useful.”

“Not as useful as this. So, Spoiler, was it?”

She opens her eyes. It’s painful, her eyelids nearly glued shut with blood and tears and sweat, but she does it, as she forces herself to think through the pain, to come back from that far and different place where she had forced herself to while the pain had been going on. She manages to put more weight on her feet, taking some of the pressure off her arms, and then finally meets the gaze of her rescuer.

“Bite down on this, Talon,” the voice says, soft and gentle, before placing a piece of hard plastic between her teeth, right before another pair of hands touch against her forehead, and the pain returns.

* * *

**_Now_ **

“You’re quiet today,” Brenda says, glancing at Cass from across the pastry counter.

Cass looks at her, unable to stop a slight smirks from forming.

Brenda laughs. “Quieter than usual, then.” She frowns, taking off her apron and marching around the corner to face Cass. “Did you get hurt again?” She asks, her voice too quiet for the rest of the customers. “Do you need—”

Cass catches her friend’s wrist before she can start checking for bullet wounds. “No,” she says. “I promise. Not going to bleed out on your floor.”

“This time,” Brenda says, but she looks relieved.

“Just… anniversary,” Cass says.

“Oh,” Brenda says, her eyes wide. “Right. I forgot. It’s… hard to keep track, here in ‘Haven.”

Cass shrugs, because it’s probably true, for most people.

But not for her. Never for her.

“Are you going into Gotham tonight then? For the memorial?” Brenda says.

Cass shrugs. “I thought I’d… do it my way.”

Brenda smiles at her. “I’m sure she’d appreciate it.” She goes back behind the counter. “Just… call me if you don’t want to be alone tonight, okay? Grief is dangerous. It sneaks up on you.”

Cass smiles. “I will. Thanks.”

She accepts her pastries and her cup of Assam and then goes back to her apartment. She’s got an online assignment from Babs, to work on her chemistry, and then she’s got a pop culture assignment from Tim, involving a TV show called _Wendy the Werewolf Stalker_ , which she’s supposed to “binge.”

But she can’t focus. The math for the chemistry isn’t working and the acting on the show is too fake, and so in the end, she puts on her costume and goes to catch the 11:12 to Gotham.

Dick was the one who taught her to ride the trains, taught her how to balance herself just right on top of it so that she could stay there, completely unnoticed, for the entire half-hour express trip.

As they pull into Gotham though, she wonders if it was a bad idea.

In Gotham Station, she can see the mural, commissioned by the Mayor to memorialize the War, to remember all the people who died.

In the center, arms spread, smiling, is Stephanie Brown.

Her hood is down, and she’s not wearing her mask. Her hair hangs loose around her face, her eyes shining and blue, her cape falling down, transforming into upside down burning buildings as it goes, the purple changing to black, to grey, to red. Orpheus stands next to her, his mask intact, his expression stern but kind, remembered as a hero, like he should be. His arms are spread out, until his fingers almost touch Steph’s, his silhouette made entirely of smoke, a pile of bullets and dissembled guns at his feet. Between and around both of them are other people. Police officers, children, EMTs, some of the Mafia family members, even.

 _We Remember the Cost of War_ , reads the red lettering, above the mural, and Cass’s stomach turns.

She crawls off the top of the train, into the vent, and then onto the roof of Gotham Central Station.

It’s an ordinary day in Gotham. She’s almost tempted to go to City Hall, to see if people have brought flowers again, to see if the photos are still up.

But it’s been three years, and things are changing.

Cass leaps across to the next roof and heads towards the Clocktower.

* * *

Babs is asleep, which isn’t entirely surprising, given the hour. Babs is truly nocturnal, unlike the rest of them, who barely even sleep. She’s sleeping in her bed, her hair still in her ponytail, barely even under the covers, eyelids fluttering, an old-fashioned pager and a modern cell phone both in reach, set to let out loud noises in case of an emergency.

Cass carefully picks both of them up, silences them, and takes them to Babs’s workstation. She puts in her own password, and lets her own eyes fall across Gotham, seeing what Babs sees.

The Gotham feeds are quiet, and the Global feeds are low-priority pings. Most of them are covered by Babs’s automated programs, but a few of them require a personal touch. Requests for status updates on certain villains. One team is looking for information on a criminal on the run, asking Babs to run his passport when they have time.

Cass isn’t good with computers like Babs is, but she’s been by her mentor’s side long enough to know how to do some of them, using Babs’s systems. She inputs her password and runs the passport, sending the update, gives an update on a program to Bruce, but mostly… she just watches.

An hour passes, then two, and finally, she hears the sounds of Babs stirring, and then quietly steals across the room to replace the devices before Babs notices.

Babs’s eyes are open, as Cass places the pager back on her bedstand.

“Anything happen?” She asks, wryly.

“No,” Cass says, pecking her mentor on the cheek before getting out of her way so Babs could swing herself into her wheelchair. “Did some cleanup. Nothing big.”

“Attagirl,” Babs says, rolling over to her monitors. “I’m guessing you’re here to the memorial service?”

Cass shrugs. “Maybe. Just… wanted to be here.”

Babs reaches over and squeezes her hand. “I get it,” she says quietly. “Me too.”

Now that Babs is awake, Cass goes to fetch takeout for them, from Steph’s favorite pizza place in the East End.

She doesn’t have to say anything, because Babs knows.

“Your bike is still in my garage,” Babs tells her, once they’re done with their late lunch. “Go to the Manor. See the others. They’d love to see you.” She puts a hand on Cass’s arm. “Feel free to stop by later, though.”

Cass nods.

She doesn’t go to the Manor though.

Instead, she goes to Crystal Brown’s apartment in Crime Alley.

Bruce had offered to buy Crystal a place anywhere she wanted. He’d offered to let her move into the Mansion, offered her a penthouse in the Diamond District, even offered her the Wayne Town House in Old Gotham. She’d refused any of his offers, all of his help, and instead, had moved into a tiny, cramped apartment in Crime Alley, a block away from Leslie’s clinic, where she now worked.

Cass changes into her civilian clothes, because Crystal doesn’t like it when they come by in their costumes, and then knocks on the door.

Crystal Brown opens the door.

The past few years have aged her. Her golden hair is now streaked with silver, the lines around her eyes are more pronounced, the sorrow is deepening the lines around her mouth and on her forehead.

But her smile is so like Steph’s when she sees Cass, that for a moment, the years fade away, and Crystal sweeps her up into a tight embrace.

The apartment is small, but well-maintained, because Bruce bought up as much of the three-block radius as he could once he started looking at the housing situation in Crime Alley, and has been pouring money into renovations, repairs, and maintenance.

“I’m glad you stopped by,” Crystal says. “I’ve got the kettle boiling, if you want tea?”

The kettle isn’t boiling, but Cass nods anyways. Crystal’s a coffee drinker, but she’s learned, since the War, that Cass prefers tea, and has taken to keeping a large stock on hand, for when Cass stops by. It’s not as often as it should be, maybe, but she tries.

Gotham is hard, sometimes, to visit. Everywhere she looks, there are the scars. New buildings to replace the ones destroyed, scorch marks still scaring marble, cement, and brick alike, graffiti on the alley walls, listing the names of the dead.

Crystal gives her a large mug of hot water and a box of tea bags. The battered sugar bowl and a small jug of milk are placed on the table, and a chipped plate of cookies.

“You knew I was coming,” Cass accuses, recognizing that Crystal had bought her favorite kind of cookies.

“I suspected,” Crystal says, a sad smile on her face as she dips her own tea bag into the hot water. “It’s… a hard day. For all of us.”

Cass nods, staring down at her mug, watching the cloud of brown billow out into the clear, steaming water, transforming it from tasteless into tea.

Wars were fought over tea, Cass knows this. People died, bled, and killed for what Cass had a whole box of resting in front of her.

War, like what had raged through Gotham, over power plays and demands for power, for control.

“I wanted to visit the grave today,” Crystal says. She takes a spoon from the jug of them on the table, and scoops the tea bag out of the boiling water. She wraps the string around the spoon and the bag, pinning the bag to the metal indent, squeezing every bit of liquid that she can get into her cup again, with the kind of efficiency that Cass has to admire. “But Barbara called me, told me that a bunch of tabloid photographers were lying in wait. They wanted to get a photo of the grieving mother.”

Cass’s lips curls. “I can take care of them,” she offers.

Crystal pats her hand, but she can’t quite manage a smile. “Thank you, but no. I’ll just… go later. Another day. Bring her flowers.”

Cass nods, accepting her choice. Crystal’s cellphone lights up, vibrating against the table, and Crystal swipes it away without even looking at it.

“The talk shows again?”

“Yes. They all want some sort of… anniversary footage. Me crying for the cameras, I guess. They want me to say that Batman killed her, or that he’s a perfect hero, or… well. I suppose they just want a nice clip for the news, really. Don’t really care what angle I take on it.”

Cass drops three sugars into her tea before trying to remove her own tea bag. She’s not as good at doing it neatly as Crystal is. Some of the liquid runs off the spoon, onto the table. She wipes it up with her sleeve, hoping Crystal doesn’t notice.

“Maybe if one of them wanted to actually talk about Stephanie, I’d say yes,” Crystal says. “But they don’t care about her. She’s just a tool that they can use. To get ratings or to argue about whether or not Batman should exist, it doesn’t matter. None of them care about _her_ , as a girl.”

Crystal’s eyes are damp with tears.

“I made waffles, this morning, you know,” she says. “It felt so wrong. It was the first time I’d gotten out the iron since… since. But when I was eating them, all I could think about was how much she loved them, and how she and her father made them together every Sunday morning, and—I couldn’t find them. I threw them away.” She laughs, covering her face with one hand, the other remaining wrapped around her mug of tea. “They say it gets easier. But… I don’t know if I _want_ it to be easier, Cassie. If it’s easier, doesn’t mean I’m forgetting her? That I’m letting her go?”

“Never,” Cass says, tears pricking her own eyes. She reaches across and wraps her arms around Crystal’s shoulders. “You won’t. And I won’t either. Because it’s Steph.”

She eats her cookies; the shortbread ones with chocolate between them, because Crystal doesn’t eat them, she only buys them for Cass.

They talk about anything but Steph; about the clinic, about Cass’s ballet classes, about Brenda and Blüdhaven, about Leslie and equipment shortages, about the upcoming Mayoral race.

“Is it true that Bruce is running?” Crystal asks, picking up the plate that Cass is done with.

Cass shrugs. “Not sure. Haven’t asked.”

“Well, ask him tonight, will you?” Crystal says, taking the dishes into the kitchen. “And tell him… I think it’s a good idea.”

“Do you?” Cass says, skeptical. Crystal’s hardly Bruce’s biggest fan, after… everything.

Crystal doesn’t turn around to face her. “He’s… I think he does a lot of good.”

“As Bruce,” Cass says, slowly. “Not as Batman.”

“You do good work, Cassie. I’ve never doubted that.”

“Just… Bruce.”

She turns, now, and Cass can see Stephanie in the stubborn jut of her chin, in the way she brushes her hair behind her ear. “He’s done some good. But… he took it too far. Didn’t he?”

Cass swallows, and looks away.

Crystal looks guilty. “I’m sorry, Cassie, I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not fair to you.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.” Crystal looks oh, so old now. “I’m sure you have plans, but if you don’t, you’re more than welcome to stay for dinner.”

Cass shakes her head. “I need to… go see my brothers.”

“And Bruce and Alfred, of course,” Crystal says. “Do swing by to say hello to Leslie. She misses you.”

Cass hugs Crystal, and Crystal hugs her back, and both of them pretend they aren’t wishing that they were hugging Steph instead.

She does stop by to see Leslie, who’s in her office, doing paperwork.

“I’m a bit busy right now,” Leslie says, looking guilty. “I’m speaking at the memorial. But if you swing by afterwards, I’d love to talk to you.”

Cass nods. “Sorry. It was… last minute.”

Leslie smiles at her, sadly. “I bet. If you come by wearing civilian clothes, I’ll buy you a milkshake. Otherwise, I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with another one of these.” She hands over a lollipop from the jar on her desk.

Cass hitches her mask up above her mouth, and sticks it in her mouth. “I’ll stop by,” she promises.

“Good,” Leslie says, before going back to her paperwork, while Cass sneaks out the window in order to avoid the nurses, who always want her to lift heavy boxes and give blood.

She already gave blood this week, in Blüdhaven, so she feels fine avoiding them, crawling into the alleyway, and calling her bike.

* * *

**_Then_ **

“Tell me,” the woman says. “Who’s the Batman?”

Talon stops, thinking it over.

“ _Talon_ ,” the man says, hovering over the woman’s shoulder. “ _Report_.”

Talon’s eyes widen, and she lunges.

The man and the woman both recoil, but she’s not moving towards them—she’s too well-trained for that. Instead, she’s reaching for the vials, the medications, that the doctor keeps there, to help with her treatment, with her progress.

She grabs one pill bottle—she knows exactly which one she’s going for, although she’s not sure how she knows this, and pours it all down her throat in a single, easy gesture.

Alarms go off, and the doctor is back, injecting adrenaline right into her heart. “I _told_ you not to push her!”

“You’re wiping her soon!” The woman snaps. “Soon, she won’t remember!”

“You’re just lucky she didn’t see a sharp object!” The doctor snarls. “Last time I asked her that question, she tried to cut out her own tongue.”

“She’s that loyal?” The man says.

The doctor chuckles. “Perhaps. But I think that she’s decided to cling to this. She’s holding onto it. Trying to use it to keep her _human_.”

The woman scoffs, and the man laughs.

Talon can’t say anything, her tongue swollen and useless in her mouth, the secret safe.

She’s not sure if she remembers what the secret is, or if she even knows the answer anymore, or if she ever did.

But she knows…

It’s hers.

Maybe the last thing that is hers.

She won’t let them take it.

Whatever it is.

She closes her eyes, and drifts away, the pain and the drugs sweeping her away into the blissful dark.

* * *

**_Now_ **

Cass watches the Memorial from the rooftops.

Leslie speaks. So does the Mayor, now retiring, the race to replace him heating up already. So does Commissioner Atkins. A few business and community leaders speak too.

Cass sits on a gargoyle, closer to the action than she needs to be, letting her cape flutter a little more freely than she normally would. That way, if anyone looks up… they know that the Bats are remembering, too, tonight.

Three years, since Stephanie Brown’s body had been found in the charred remains of a building, along with torture implements, and Orpheus’s corpse. There were signs of a struggle, and most people had concluded that Stephanie had broken free, and the fire had been started in the struggle.

For weeks, after the body had been found, Cass had held onto hope, hope after hope, that the body wasn’t Steph. She had kept looking, had ignored Bruce’s push to move to Blüdhaven, ignored the scraps of purple cape found in the rubble, because the body was so burned they couldn’t really _know_ , the dental records were in backlog, the autopsy wasn’t complete because of the immense backlog after the War, maybe it wasn’t—

The autopsy had come back.

It was Stephanie Brown. Seventeen years old, died of smoke inhalation, although she had suffered lacerations, a gunshot, and multiple broken bones before she had finally died.

The doctor who had performed the autopsy didn’t tell Crystal that her daughter hadn’t suffered. It was pretty clear that it would have been a lie if he had.

Below her, a child points up, having spotted Cass.

Cass waves, but does not leave. A rabbi is now speaking, the first of the religious leaders who will be leading the prayers for the dead.

Across the plaza, she can see Bruce. Tim is in the crowd, with his schoolmates, to memorialize Darla and other people from his school. She can’t see Dick. Maybe he didn’t come, but she’s not so sure.

The War was hard on all of them.

But if she had known about Tarantula then, Cass would have taken the time to throw the woman off the tallest building that was survivable. Dick wouldn’t, because he was so good at defending his family but so bad at defending himself.

She can’t blame Dick, if he’s somewhere else tonight. He hadn’t known Steph, hadn’t know Orpheus either. His own grief, his own pain, was a different kind, one that maybe didn’t fit in with this, with the candles cupped in people’s hands, in the flowers piles against the wall, photos kept in place on the brickwork by tape and nails and anything else the family members could get their hands on.

Steph is there, over and over again, left by dozens of people. Her in her civilian clothes, her as Spoiler, her as Robin, pictures of the memorial, pictures of her prom dress… it kept going, and it was all painful and beautiful in equal parts.

Onyx stands with a group of people from the Hill, a headwrap concealing her distinctive profile, but Cass would recognize her friend anywhere. She’d have to say hello later… or just text her. Tonight might be too much, for both of them.

The memorial ends, and people filter away, tears bright on faces, the murmuring of the crowd quiet, for a group of Gothamites.

There are only a handful of people left in the square, when Cass leaps down from her gargoyle in order to land in front of the biggest photo of Steph. It’s one of her as Robin, laughing, her head tilted back, one hand reaching out to help a little girl out of a tree. The girl is smiling too, and it’s such a perfect moment that Cass always smiles when she sees it.

Stephanie Brown had taken the time, in the midst of everything, to make a little girl smile, even while she was scared to come down from a tree.

Cass takes the single red rose out of her belt, and lets it fall into the mess of flowers, a riot of colors and boquets, easily overwhelming her own offering. She hears people whisper, hears a camera shutter click, but she ignores it.

“I miss you,” she says to Steph’s photo.

She leaves.

* * *

**_Then_ **

“I think we should put her on ice soon,” the woman says.

“It’d be a waste,” the doctor says. “She’s not done growing yet, see these scans. With the supplements we’re giving her, she’s got a few inches yet on her. And maybe another thirty pounds of muscle. We want her in peak condition before we freeze her.”

“How long will that take?” The man says.

“A year. Maybe two. But she’ll be the best Talon we’ve had in generations. Look at her. She’s been standing on one hand for hours. She never tires. Her pain tolerance is incredible. Whatever we can say about the Bat, he’s trained her well. She’s incredible already.”

“Talon!” The man says. “Report!”

“Sir?” She asks, looking up, keeping herself steady. “Three hours into mandatory workout, sir. Drilled with poisons this morning. Injections scheduled in twenty-five minutes.”

“More injections?” The woman says.

“Her healing factor’s still a work in progress,” he says. “Too much too fast, she’ll stop growing. Better to spread it out.”

“We don’t normally have to do this,” the man snaps.

“ _Normally_ we get either adults or children. Teenagers are different.”

The woman laughs. “But she’s not a teenager, doctor.”

“Hmm?” The man says.

“Talon, get down from there,” the woman says.

Obediently, Talon leaps down, landing neatly on her feet. “Ma’am?”

“What’s the name of the Batman?”

Talon tilts her head to one side. “Who?”

“What’s Robin’s name?”

“Who?”

“What’s Batgirl’s name?”

“Who?”

“What’s Nightwing’s name?”

“Who?”

“A good little owl, isn’t she?” The man laughs.

“What’s Spoiler’s name?” The woman says, plowing forward.

“Who?”

The three of them all laugh, and then the woman steps forward.

“Come closer, Talon.” The woman says.

Talon does.

The woman holds out a strange knife, with curved edges. It’s shaped like… a bat?

“Do you know what this is?”

“No, ma’am,” she says.

The woman laughs. “Good.”

She picks it up, holds it between her fingers. “Now, let’s see if I can do this right—”

She hurls it forward, and Talon lets out a small grunt of pain, as the strange object imbeds itself into her shoulder. Blood starts flowing.

The woman and the man laugh, while the doctor shouts at them to get out, they’re disturbing the routine, she’s not _finished_ —

“Happy birthday, Talon,” the man says, waving at her. “Eighteen years old! It’s a big one.”

She blinks, the not-knife still stuck in her shoulder. “Thank you sir.”

They leave, and she’s alone with the doctor, and she’s not sure that’s better.

He sighs, and offers her the piece of rubber to put beneath her teeth, and she climbs into the chair.

The manacles close around her wrists and ankles, and only then does he yank the sharp metal thing out of her shoulder, letting it drop to the ground.

“Well, you’re making a lot of progress, little Talon,” he tells her. “Soon, you’ll be ready to face all the Court’s enemies.”

That’s all she wants, she would tell him, were she allowed to speak, were the piece of rubber not placed firmly between her teeth to stop her from biting off her own tongue.

All she wants to do is to help.

He places the electrodes on her temples, and gives her an injection. The injection is painful, but she knows how to handle it by now, knows how to keep herself still and her muscles loose, to avoid the worst of it.

But then the electricity starts, and no matter how many times this happens, she can’t get over it.

She screams, she thrashes, and, hidden behind the safety guard in her mouth, she lets out a single secret that she doesn’t even remember that she knows.

“ _Bruce_!”

* * *

**_Now_ **

“Running for mayor might actually be the worst idea you’ve had in like, three whole weeks,” Jason complains.

“The clean up campaign needed someone to take a stance,” Bruce says, tilting his head back to allow Alfred to tie his tie. “Everyone else was too afraid.”

“Yes, because you’ve been getting _death threats_ ,” Dick says, going through the mail while wearing gloves. “Oh hey, this one’s got the magazine cutout lettering.”

“I found one with powdered Joker Gas yesterday, I’m still winning,” Tim says, sorting through his own pile of mail.

“Death threats mean we’re pissing off the right people." 

Alfred’s sigh is slight but meaningful. “Really, Master Bruce, you could be a little less cavalier with your well-being?”

“I’m not going to let anything happen to him, Alfred,” Onyx looks bespoke in her own suit, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed as she surveys the scene.

“Miss Onyx,” Alfred says, turning to face her. “I don’t suppose it’s crossed your mind that I’m also concerned about _your_ safety?”

Onyx opens her mouth, then closes it again. “No?”

Alfred huffs. “Well, I am.”

“I don’t see why I couldn’t re-hire Sasha,” Bruce protests.

“Because we _really_ don’t want to remind everyone that you broke out of prison and were accused of murder,” Dick points out, mildly.

“Plus she’s busy,” Cass says, counting off on her fingers. “Running Checkmate. Being sneaky. And a robot.”

“Only _part_ robot,” Tim says, her brother throwing another letter into the pile to send to the GCPD.

“Besides,” Onyx uncrosses her arms and puts them on her hips. “ _One_ of us has League training, and it’s not _Sasha_.”

“And Onyx looks better in a suit,” Cass adds.

“Aww, you flatter me,” Onyx mock preens. “Cassie, when are you gonna stop playing with girl’s hearts and finally ask a pretty girl out on a date?”

Cass shrugs. “Dating’s complicated. Don’t have time.”

Dick, Onyx, and Alfred all sigh. Babs probably would too, if she was present, rather than coordinating an operation with the Birds of Prey.

“Crystal’s coming tonight,” Tim says. “She and Leslie. You’re helping them fundraise tonight too, remember?”

“Of course,” Bruce says, waving a sheet of paper with his own horrific handwriting scribbled over it. “I give my speech, then we talk about the clinic and the initiative, about the missing three million dollars allocated for social services in Uptown, and then Leslie and Crystal talk about equipment shortages and medicines and try to squeeze both literal and figurative blood out of my fellow one percenters.”

“Maybe don’t say that part out loud again?” Jason says. “Not that I’m not enjoying the class consciousness, but save it for the Burnley circuit, not the Old Gotham circuit.”

“I’ll try,” Bruce says, slipping his jacket on over his shoulders. “Now, are we ready?”

“This is a horrible idea,” Jason repeats, even as he adjusts his own bowtie. “We’ll _never_ be able to hide a Batsuit in the Mayor’s office.”

“It’s so optimistic of you that you think he’ll win,” Tim says.

“Gotham’s golden boy?” Jason snorts. “He’ll do _fine_.”

“Presuming the Mafia doesn’t firebomb the Manor before election day,” Dick says.

“Ah, c’mon, Dickie,” Jason throws his arm over Dick’s shoulders. “We both know that the Odessa Mob will beat them to it. Alexandra holds a _grudge_.”

“She has a grudge against _Batman_ , not Bruce Wayne,” Bruce says, having stopped to help Cass fasten her bracelet around her wrist.

“You have her _eye_ in the _Batcave_ ,” Tim points out.

“Souvenir." 

“Sometimes, I’m so proud to call you my father,” Jason says in mock awe.

Bruce sighs. “Let’s get a move on,” he says. “Alfred, I can drive—”

“Not happening, sir,” Alfred says sternly, doffing his chauffeur cap. “Until this confounded mayoral campaign is settled, the only thing you’re driving is the Batmobile.”

Onyx sighs. “You’re wearing your vest, right?” 

Really, Cass should have gone for a suit too, then they all could have matched. She likes her dress—Babs helped her pick it out, and it’s forest green with flowy sleeves the remind her of a cape, and the fabric is so soft that every movement that sends it brushing against her skin in a pleasant way that she loves. But matching would have been nice. 

“Yes,” he says. “I can’t show you, because then I’d have to undo the tie, and then we’d be late.”

“If you get shot and you’re not wearing it, I’ll stab you,” Onyx threatens.

“Is that allowed?” Bruce says, raising an eyebrow at her, before Onyx and Alfred herd all of them out into the car.

“I’m an assassin, I’ll do what I like,” she says. “Cass won’t stop me unless you don’t deserve it.”

“True,” Cass says serenely, buckling herself into her seat.

Her father gives her a halfhearted look of betrayal, while Jason gets into the passenger seat next to Alfred.

* * *

The gala itself is boring. Cass dances with her brothers, because Brenda had turned down her invitation to come with her.

Kate is there, but she’s busy dancing her girlfriend, Renee, and the two of them are having massive heart eyes, and so Cass decides against trying to get Kate to dance with her.

Instead, she lurks in the corners, people watching.

“Who does Wayne think he is?” One woman says, sipping champagne. “He thinks he can just burst onto politics, as if he’s not one of the biggest lushes we’ve seen since Cobblepot Senior—”

“ _I hear_ , he really killed that Fairchild girl, he had to bribe the judge to get it expunged—”

“And his army of bastards. Adoption my ass, I always knew Janet Drake could do better than Jack—”

“If he wins, do you think he’ll have to sell the company? Luthor’s been trying to buy it ever since the Quake, but—”

“He’s not going to win, the man’s got the brains of a dead pigeon—”

“Is he self-funding, or is he seriously expecting us to contribute to—”

“God, Leslie looks so _old_ , honestly, she needs to get some work done—”

“Who’s that with her—”

“Crystal Brown. You know. Batman’s _lover_. That’s how her daughter—”

“You know, _I heard_ —”

“My, my, but did little Richard Grayson grow up—”

“That Tim is the exact right age for my Lauren—”

“I heard that Cassandra’s a bit too much like her cousin—”

“Oh, what a _waste_ —”

“Strutting around with that… _girlfriend_ of hers—”

“I hear her family lives in _Bowery_ —”

“Well _my_ cousin says Kate Kane was asking her grandfather for the family ring—”

“If _I_ were him, I’d have disowned her then and there—”

“Why couldn’t Bruce have just stuck to fundraising—”

“Politics are for people with _backbone_ —"

“Wasn’t Jason the name of that son of his who died—”

“Who’s that woman in the suit, where did he _find_ —”

“He’s going to crumple the first time he’s put on a debate stage—”

“He’s never had to work for anything, not like us—”

“Ugh, Leslie never shuts up about that damn clinic of hers—”

“Just write her a check and she’ll go away—”

Cass, rolling her eyes at the petty gossip, the cruelty, and the hypocrisy, glides forward and loops her arm through Leslie’s arm.

“How’s the fundraising?” She says, standing on tiptoes to kiss Leslie’s cheek.

Leslie laughs, and there’s a rustle of fabric as she slips a lollipop out of her pocket and into Cass’s sleeve.

“Well, we’re not doing great, but Bruce is our best advocate, and he hasn’t made the rounds yet.”

Bruce is currently dancing with Vicki Vale, and seems to be actually enjoying himself leading her into some obscure joke that only he will get, so Cass lets him stay. Dick is dancing with Crystal, and Crystal’s actually smiling, so he’s her favorite brother today. She’ll tell him when Jason and Tim are in ear-shot, because her brothers get so funny about that competition, which she hadn’t even meant to start.

Eventually, Jason claims Leslie for a dance and Cass finds herself dancing with Bette Kane, who’s apparently a cousin of hers, but she doesn’t think they’ve met before.

Before long, Bruce is being led up to the stage with Leslie and Crystal, and he starts to give his speech.

“And in these times of corruption, we need a change. We need new leadership, and guidance. We need a leader who will support the most important work in this city—people likes Doctor Leslie Thompkins and Crystal Brown, who have worked tirelessly at the Park Row Free Clinic, providing vital services to those in Gotham who are worst off. If elected—”

Whatever promise he was going to make is cut off as the glass ceiling of the ballroom shatters, and an assassin falls from the ceiling.

The lights cut, and everyone starts screaming and panicking, but Cass watches in horror as the assassin—a woman in a sleek black outfit with a hood and golden lines, a bandolier of knives gleaming against her chest, an inhuman mask covering her face, the eyes glowing golden, even in the darkness.

Onyx leaps into action, getting between the assassin and Bruce, but the assassin is fast, and…

 _Good_.

Maybe too good.

Cass dives under one of the tablecloths that are covering the buffet table, and wriggles out of her dress, revealing her Batgirl suit beneath. She pulls her mask over her face, and then throws out a handful of smoke bombs in order to obscure her entrance.

Her brothers are probably doing the same thing, but she’s out first, and she’s always the fastest out of all of them, darting through the stampeding crowd, towards the raised platform, where Bruce is trying to get Leslie and Crystal to safety, where Onyx has taken one of the assassin’s own knives and stabbed her in the shoulder with it.

The assassin doesn’t falter, just slams her fist against Onyx’s jaw in an uppercut, sending Cass’s friend sprawling onto the ground, and then moves towards Bruce, Leslie, and Crystal, with a knife in her hand.

Cass throws a batarang, piercing the skin of the woman’s hand through her glove, but she doesn’t drop the knife, like Cass expects.

Instead, she lunges forward, towards Bruce, even faster.

Jason’s the one who intercepts her, ramming into her from the side. Lark stands there, fists raised, challenging the assassin to take him on.

Cassandra leaps onto the stage, between the assassin and her target. A moment later, Nightwing joins them, helping Onyx to her feet. Robin moves in from behind the assassin, boxing her in.

The woman turns slightly, as if realizing it.

The knife flies out of her hands, towards Dick, who wears less armor than the rest of them. Onyx yanks him by the arm and pulls him onto the ground, into her, the two of them falling down in a tangle of limbs, and the assassin makes a break for it.

“I’ve got her!” Cass yells, giving chase.

Her brothers don’t protest, turning towards getting Leslie and Crystal to safety, to making sure the assassin hadn’t left behind any surprises.

She catches up with the assassin, who’s definitely enhanced in some way, in the hallway.

Cass tackles the assassin around the waist, and the woman twists in her grip, trying to sink her knife into Cass’s shoulder. Cass deflects it with the spikes on her gauntlets, keenly aware of how fast the woman is, how much power is weighed behind every punch. There’s no blood coming from her hand or her shoulder, even though her own knife is still embedded in her shoulder. Some sort of healing factor, then.

It’s a fight that’s brutal, each of them giving it their all, the two of them strangely matched in a way that is causing Cass’s skin to crawl, because there’s something _familiar_ about this woman, the flash of blonde hair that she can see beneath the hood, the upper cut she attempts—

Cass slams her foot against the woman’s mask, sending it flying off, wanting to eliminate whatever advantages are in those uncanny yellow lenses.

And the world grinds to a halt.

Blonde hair. Blue eyes. A nose that’s been broken more than once. A mouth made for smiling. A stubborn chin, just like Crystal Brown’s.

“Steph?”

The woman tilts her head to one side, in a motion that seems to be genuinely confused. For a moment, there’s no murderous attempt, just… puzzlement, in those dark blue eyes that Cass has dreamed about so often.

“Who?”

It’s Steph’s voice. Cass would know it anywhere. She slowly starts to spread her hands away from her body, trying to signal that she doesn’t want to fight, because this—she doesn’t know how—

A batarang flies through the air, slicing across the woman’s cheek, leaving a thin red line that seems to heal even as Cass stares in horror as smoke fills the hallway.

She charges forward, but it’s too late.

The assassin is gone.

“Batgirl!” Robin is at her side in a moment, a hand wrapped around her elbow. “What was wrong, you stopped—”

Jason is holding the mask, cracked across the eye from the force of Cass’s kick.

“Spoiler,” she gasps. “It was—it was Steph.”

**_End Part I_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're looking at least one more chapter, maybe two, but I'm going to _try_ to keep this down to a two-shot. It'll be a few weeks before the next one rolls out, but hopefully it won't be too long!


	2. Counterplay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talon does not know Batgirl. She does not know the name Stephanie Brown. 
> 
> Except, perhaps, in her dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's left comments or shown support for this fic since the first chapter went up! I'm delighted so many people have been enjoying this so far... and now time for chapter 2!
> 
> Again, thanks to renaroo for reading this over for me and for being my idea-bouncer extraordinaire. 
> 
> Chapter warnings for: brainwashing, memory issues, torture, violence, injury, self harm by a character with a healing factor, references to child-trafficking, and illness.

**_Now_ **

“Talon, report.”

The Owls are angry, sitting around her waiting.

Her mask is gone, left behind when Batgirl had attacked, and Bruce Wayne lives. They had wanted his death public, his execution by her hand a symbol to those who would stand in the way of progress and prosperity. But he lives, and the public showing was instead a humiliation for the Court, rather than a terror for the people of Gotham.

“At the appointed time I struck at Wayne through the ceiling,” she says, struggling to make sure that her face is completely neutral, without her mask. Our informant had cut the lights, and I attacked. The bodyguard attempted to interfere, but I subdued her and was approaching Wayne when Batgirl arrived.”

“Batgirl,” one of the Court hisses, her mask, a visage of a Great Horned Own that sparkled with moonstones and topaz trembling with rage. “That insolent—”

“Continue, Talon,” the woman says, her mask as familiar as Talon’s own face. Her mask is that of a Snowy Owl, porcelain and pearls forming the markings.

“Batgirl attempted to distract me from Wayne. Lark interfered. Soon Nightwing and Robin were there, attempting to capture me. I followed the directive and escaped. Batgirl pursued. We fought.”

“You fought Batgirl?” The man asks. His Burrowing Owl mask is of onyx and silver, ostentatious and grand, as befits his status.

“Yes sir,” she says.

“How did you escape after she beat you?” One of the other owls, a man with a Barn Owl mask, demands.

“She did not, sir,” Talon says. “The fight was unresolved when the others came after me, causing a distraction so I could flee.”

“But your mask,” the woman says. “When did you lose your mask?” 

“It was knocked off in combat,” she reports dutifully.

“Did they recognize you?” The man demands, leaning forward.

_“Steph?”_

_“Who?”_

It had been a question. Batgirl had not been sure.

She… should tell them. About the Name. About the feeling, in her chest, the strange tightness there, the way she thinks she’s heard Batgirl say that name before, that if she stops she thinks she can hear it being screamed, desperately, as she runs away—

It’s impossible. She is Talon. Talons have no names, they have no histories. They are extensions of the Court’s will, the Court’s judgement, and so for Batgirl to recognize her was impossible.

But…

“No sir,” she says.

The Court sighs. “Report to medical,” the woman says, waving her hand.

She goes, and sees the doctor.

“Blood work first,” he says, and she obediently sits down. “Who did you fight?”

“Batgirl, Lark, Nightwing, Robin,” she reports dutifully. “The bodyguard, Onyx.”

“Hmm, better safe than sorry.”

She sits there as he runs his tests, as he checks her reflexes and her pupils, as he orders her a new mask from the armory. He talks a lot, about his wife, his children, about his research. He complains about Bruce Wayne, the man she was supposed to kill, complains about someone named Thompkins who she does not know. She sits there and says nothing, listening to it all, like she has every other time he’s called her into here.

“The chair, my dear,” he tells her, and she gets in. The manacles close.

There are no more injections, as she is done growing. But they like to keep her wiped, especially if she’s not going right back to be frozen.

Once the piece of rubber is safely between her teeth and the pain starts, as an experiment, she tries out the name, screaming it through the safety bit as if it will allow her to keep it.

“ _Steph_!”

* * *

**_Then_ **

They bury Steph on a Tuesday.

There are funerals after funerals, these days. Sunday was Orpheus.

The tears were hot and itchy against Cass’s cheeks.

Before Steph, Cass isn’t sure the last time she cried.

Dick wraps his arms around her, precariously balanced on his crutches, the injury on his leg still keeping him grounded, uncertain. He’s off balance, Cass can tell, but she’s not sure he’s ready for her to ask why. She won’t let him go, though, not until he’ll tell her, because Steph had been off balance, unsettled in herself, the last time Cass had seen her.

She wouldn’t let anything like that happen to Dick. Not her big brother.

Crystal and Leslie are leaning on each other. Bruce looks on. Tim is there, flanked by his friends from his team, his father looking awkwardly on.

Tim has another funeral to go to, the next day, for Darla, the friend of his who died at the school.

So many funerals.

Onyx comes up to her afterwards, her expression the kind of careful, practiced blankness that Cass sees on her family. But Onyx’s body is full of rage and pain.

Orpheus had died. The two of them had been friends, comrades, partners. Onyx was supposed to have protected him, but she failed.

Cass had failed too.

Onyx hugs Cass tightly. “They wouldn’t want us to kill him,” she says, finally, when she lets Cass go.

“No,” Cass says. “And I won’t let you.”

Onyx laughs, pressing the back of her hand against Cass’s cheek. “And that’s why you’re going to be Batman, one day,” she says.

Cass startles. No one has ever… “What?”

“It’s obvious,” Onyx says. “Are you saying you don’t want it?”

“More than anything,” Cass says. She looks at the grave. “Almost anything,” she amends.

“We all wish for the impossible,” Onyx says. “But okay. No killing.”

“He’s out of prison already.”

“Hmm. Good thing you’re a detective, right?” Onyx looks at her, and stretches her hand. “Partners?”

Cass grips her hand hard.

“Partners,” she promises.

For Steph.

For Orpheus.

* * *

**_Now_ **

Talon takes her new mask and goes to her roost.

Her roost is a little nook carved into a wall, three feet high, seven feet long, three feet deep. One side faces out, across to the other holes, where the other active Talons sleep.

There are five of them now. The ones who sleep are visible, glass walls closing them into their roosts, ice clinging to them and their clothes. Preserved, until the Court needs them again.

She holds her mask in her hand. She should put it on, of course. It’s not good to be walking around without it.

The mission… she just came back from one. That’s why she has a new mask. She frowns, and looks at her mask. It’s the same as every other mask she has ever worn, but somehow, she can’t shake the feeling that this mask is… wrong. That it should be different, somehow.

She takes another step forward, towards her roost, and catches a glimpse of her own reflection in the frosted glass of the nook below hers.

Blonde hair flickers out of the corner of her eye, and she stops, and looks again. Her hair is short, buzzed close to her skull, but she can still make out the color, the texture… it looks like it… she thinks it should be longer. She thinks it would curl, when it does. She thinks…

She remembers, vaguely, a woman. A woman with long, blonde hair and a smile—

A wave of pain overcomes her, and she falls to her knees, clinging to the sides of her head, feeling as if an electric shock has coursed through her, even though she’s not in the chair.

She should put the mask on, walk away from the reflection, should go report to conditioning, but—

“ _Steph_?”

Batgirl. Ears, head tilted, mask completely covering her face, hand outstretched, calling that name, that name, over and over and over again, a thousand times—

“Cass,” she whispers, an answer to a call that she doesn’t remember.

This time, she screams out loud, buckling over, clinging to her stomach as a wave of nausea overcomes her, and it’s a _secret_ , she’s not supposed to say it, she could ruin everything, and so she bites down on her tongue, hard, to stop herself from saying it again, even though she—

She puts the mask on. Pulls her hood up. 

Talon gets to her feet.

No blonde hair. No blue eyes. No name.

She is Talon, the hand of the Court.

She is… not that other thing. She is not the girl that Batgirl was calling after, reaching out for, begging to come back, to change her mind.

She climbs into her roost, lowers her hands to her sides, closes her eyes, and wills herself to sleep.

* * *

**_Then_ **

Cass hits the water hard, and she drifts downwards.

The harbor water is dark and murky, full of chemicals and debris, and for a moment, Cass can’t do anything. She is stunned by the landing and winded from her fight, and she… she’s so tired. It feels like she’s been running and hasn’t stopped for a single moment, not since the War.

Silent, strong hands grab her, and Cass turns her face upwards, half expecting to see a purple cape and blonde hair, but it’s Onyx, gripping her by the cape and dragging her out of the water.

“Baby girl,” Onyx says. “You need to _live_. You’re not going to do her any good dead.”

“She’s gone,” Cass whispers, the words strange and hollow in her mouth. “What good… am I to her alive?”

Onyx raps her sharply on the shoulder. “Maybe nothing. But do you think she’d give up? Do you think that’s what she’d want?”

“No,” Cass looks down at her hands, then pulls her mask off.

“Put that back on,” Onyx orders, looking away. “You’re going to _live_ , Baby Girl. Not just as Batgirl. But as whoever is under that mask.”

“What if… I don’t know how?” Cass asks.

Onyx shrugs. “Then you figure it out. Just like the rest.”

Cass stares at her mask. “But…”

“No buts,” Onyx says, staring at the sunrise.

“But what if I trust you?” Cass demands. “We’re… partners. Friends.” She hesitates. “Aren’t we?”

Onyx sighs, and finally looks at Cass. 

“I guess we are, aren’t we?”

“Cass,” she says, holding out her hand.

Onyx grins, and shakes the hand.

“Good to meet you, I suppose. Now, let’s get out of here.”

* * *

**_Now_ **

In the Bird’s Nest, Talon watches videos of the attack, analyzing the actions of the Bats. She watches their moves, the way they circle around Wayne, circle the Talon (it’s not her… she thinks. She can’t tell), the way they work together.

She rewinds, and presses play again. She watches Batgirl, her movements, trying to track where she came from. She can’t… she can’t find her. Somewhere in the smoke, perhaps, but the cameras didn’t catch it.

She rewinds further, watching the party, still looking for Batgirl. She responded so quickly, was on the site immediately there’s no way that she wasn’t there. Perhaps she was one of the servers, or the security guards, or even lurking in the ceiling, in case of an attempt.

But she finds herself staring at the guests, dancing and laughing and eating and drinking. An entirely different world, one that a Talon has no place in.

Her eyes land on a woman in a green dress. About the age that Talon appears to be, the woman dances and watches, drifting in and out of conversations.

Talon’s eyes land on her as she approaches a woman with snow-white hair. She’s… she…

Talon rewinds again.

She follows the white haired woman, all the way from the beginning. Thompkins, she recognizes her now, an auxiliary target. Acceptable collateral damage. Thompkins wanders through the party, a parasite amongst luxury, a burr in the side of—who is that?

Golden hair, streaked with silver. A face…

She knows that face.

She leans forward, hungry, staring, knowing…

That name isn’t on her dossiers. She’s no one.

Talon rewinds.

The woman dances with secondary target Richard Wayne. The woman speaks with Thompkins. The woman looks… sad. Why is she sad?

A noise outside the door reminds Talon of her duty, and she rewinds again, her eyes drifting back to the woman in the green dress.

Secondary target Cassandra Wayne, she realizes, the third or fourth time after she watches the woman dance with Bette Kane—another acceptable loss.

Wayne can’t be…

_“Steph_?”

She…

She rewinds.

She restarts.

Wayne’s not in the ballroom when the gas clears. Could be a coincidence…

Her temples ache. Something foreign and salty fills her mouth.

“Talon? Report.”

Talon opens her eyes, and turns around.

“No sign of Batgirl in the crowd,” she says. The pain fades. “I think she was in the vents, in waiting. They knew we were coming.”

“Damn,” the woman says. She’s not wearing her mask. Talon doesn’t need to be hidden from, after all. A Talon is a tool, to be used at will.

The pain in Talon’s temples is fading, and the taste retreats from her mouth.

As the woman curses and leaves, Talon rolls the name around in her mind, but it doesn’t… sit right.

She stares at the screen.

Slowly, carefully, she pulls up the Court’s file on Cassandra Wayne.

She’s not sure why.

* * *

**_Then_ **

Cain sends her flowers after Stephanie’s funeral.

She burns them.

* * *

**_Now_ **

Cassandra Wayne lives in Blüdhaven. Her address is on file.

Talon reports to her superiors, tells them she wants to scout to observe the heroes to better prepare for her next mission. She receives permission.

On an instinct she’s not sure of, she rides the top of the train to Blüdhaven. She could have requisitioned a vehicle, could have stolen one. But instead…

She stands on the roof, an exposed and ridiculous way to do it. She’s vulnerable like this, exposed. She should jump off, should find another way to travel there, but…

This feels right, in a way she can’t explain. She stays there, her body automatically compensating for the turns and jolts.

_Batgirl_.

Why is that the one who has captured her mind? It’s…

She’s not sure.

Something about this isn’t right. She’s irritable and her head pounds, her face sweaty and her palms itchy.

But she needs _answers_.

That name, echoing in her mind. The woman with gold-and-silver hair and Cassandra Wayne in her green dress.

Two women.

But she can’t get them out of her mind.

“ _Steph_?”

She leaps off the train, Talon tucking and rolling, her landing perfect.

Sbe’s the pinnacle of the Talon program, their greatest weapon. Anonymous, emotionless, skilled, and deadly. Their tool of terror and their voice of violence, crafted by the Court to bring Gotham back from the brink of chaos and terror that it has been falling towards, ever since Batman emerged.

She is the knife of the city’s justice, the guiding hand of order. Through her, the righteous glory of Gotham’s golden era shall be restored.

A Talon has no room for thoughts of her own. Her mind, her soul, belongs to the Court, as much as a weapon as the rest of her.

But when she thinks of telling the woman, the man, the doctor, of what she is uncovering, what she is suspecting…

She peels her mask off her face, as she tries to organize her thoughts into an order, tries to make sense of them, tries to fit them into a report. She kneels on the rough rooftop, and vomits.

Her tongue swells in her mouth, fighting some sort of… chemical attack? Allergic reaction? What could be causing this?

Perhaps Batgirl poisoned her. Perhaps there was something in that gas, creeping into Talon’s thoughts, taking over her very soul.

Her hands are shaking.

She puts on her mask.

She is a weapon of her masters, a servant of Gotham, the protector of its past and the shepherd of its future.

She will find Batgirl, and—

She is not sure what is next.

But she does not think she will tell the Court.

Wayne’s house is a ramshackle thing, surprising for an heiress. But the security is good. _Very_ good. Much better than a house like this justifies.

But she has been trained well. She slips through windows, avoids pressure pads, ducks cameras…

The house is a mess. There’s an unmade bed, piles of clothes, and a kitchen with dirty dishes in the sink. Despite its size, only a few rooms look lived in, with the rest dusty and the furniture covered in sheets.

And she finds the elevator.

She doesn’t take the elevator. Instead, she climbs down the shaft, rather than risk activating a gas trap or the like, and finds…

A Batcave.

It’s an abandoned subway stop, shining with dark tile. An impressive computer set up is set against the bricked up wall where the tunnel once was.

There’s a Batgirl costume in a glass case.

Talon presses her hand against it, thoughtfully.

There are other things, too. Souvenirs, or perhaps trophies from battles. Scraps of fabric, masks, a tattered purple cape.

She touches the cape, wondering. It’s singed, and she thinks she can smell smoke and blood and—

“Steph?”

The voice isn’t in her head this time.

She whips around, grabbing a knife and preparing for a fight.

Cassandra Wayne stands by the fireman’s pole leading down from the house, wearing a costume but no mask, her hand outstretched.

“Steph? It’s me.”

“I’m…” Talon’s fingers are still tangled in the purple fabric.

“You don’t have to run,” Wayne says, not coming any closer. “Steph, please. Don’t you… recognize me?”

Talon’s eyes land on a small door, tucked behind the computers, a route out to the tunnels.

“Your name… is Stephanie Brown,” Wayne calls. “I broke into your house, asked you to help me on a case. You said you’d teach me to read.”

“I have no name,” she says. Purple, why is it purple, why does she hear the whirring, why does she taste _blood_?

“Stephanie,” Wayne takes a step towards her. “I can help you.”

Talon whips the cape at Batgirl, tangling the woman up in it as best she can, before making a run for the door.

A hand grips her wrist.

“I can’t just let you leave,” Wayne says.

Talon wrenches herself backwards, her own bones shattering as she breaks out of the grip, and she lunges into the tunnels, hissing in pain as she loses herself to the darkness.

* * *

**_Then_ **

Alfred takes her to the tea shop.

The air smells rich, of coffee, the more delicate scent of tea, of lemon and fresh bread and melted chocolate from the pastries. The place is muted in its colors; pale greens for the floor and greys for the walls, paintings on the walls with the little tags that Cass has learned means that they’re for sale.

She sits across from Alfred. She drinks the tea he orders for her, eats the sandwich.

The woman at the counter is looking at Alfred with suspicion, and her with concern.

When Alfred gets up to go fetch the car, the woman darts around the counter. “How old are you?” She asks, urgently. “If you need help, you can hide in the bathroom—”

“Oh,” Cass blinks. “No, I’m—he’s my grandfather. Really,” she says, seeing the woman’s skeptical look. “I had to move. Out of Gotham. He’s helping me find a new place.”

The woman relaxes a few inches. “Okay,” she says. “So he’s _not_ the reason you have that shiner?”

Cass blinks. Honestly, she’d forgotten that she had a black eye—Onyx is good, good enough to hit her.

“Oh. No.” She smiles at the woman, and tries to think what Stephanie would say. Onyx says that Cass needs a secret identity. That she needs to be _Cass_ , not just Batgirl. And so she says, rather than ducking the truth, “I take self-defense classes. My teacher got lucky.”

“I should see the other guy, huh?” The woman says.

“Other girl,” Cass corrects, grinning.

At that, the woman actually smiles. She believes her. “I’m Brenda,” she says, sticking out her hand. “Sorry for being suspicious about your gramps. I’m sure he’s nice.”

“He is,” Cass assures her. “But… thank you. For worrying.”

Brenda shakes her head. “With so much chaos in Blüdhaven these days as everyone tries to move out of Gotham… prices are rising, and it means a lot of bad people are getting away with a lot of shit. I’m trying to keep an eye out.”

Cass nods, thoughtfully. “Still. Thank you.” She shakes Brenda’s hand.

When Brenda’s not looking, she sticks a twenty in the tip jar. Steph always says that if you can afford it, you might as well tip well—

Said.

She had _said_ , that.

Tenses aren’t something that Cass has had to worry about before. There are so many rules of language, so many ways to signal things or feelings, to use metaphor or euphemism to say something rather than being direct.

Steph is in the past tense now. She no longer _is_ , she _was_ , and never _will be_. There is an absence of Stephanie Brown, even in words, in language, and that isn’t _fair_. What’s the point of words, if words hurt so much? Why does she need _more ways_ to hurt?

Cass leaves the store and stands on the curb until Alfred pulls up in the car.

“Are you alright, Miss Cassandra?”

“No,” she says. “Oh wait. Am I supposed to lie?”

Alfred reaches over and squeezes her hand.

“Never, dear girl,” he tells her. “Not to me, at least.”

“Brenda says… that things are going to get more expensive,” Cass says. “Because people are moving from Gotham.”

“It’s called gentrification,” Alfred tells her. “And yes. It started after the earthquake—before you were in Gotham, I believe. It’s a long process. But most of the people who can afford it… they are leaving the city.”

“So… what happens? To the people who already live here?” Cass asks.

“That’s the trouble,” Alfred says. “Many will lose their homes, have to move somewhere else. A lot of them might end up in Gotham, or even Hub City, or move into worse places here in Blüdhaven, where they can afford it.”

“Am I—part of the problem?” Cass asks, as they pull up to her new place.

Alfred looks considering. “Perhaps a small part.”

“Can we… help? Stop that?”

“Well,” Alfred says. “Master Bruce is always looking for new projects. And he’s made sure you have more than enough money for your needs. I’ll look into things, find some contacts in the community.” He squeezes her shoulder. “Good job, Miss Cassandra. That’s the kind of work you can do as Cassandra Wayne. Not as Batgirl.”

Cass nods. “I still want to help as Batgirl,” she adds, hastily.

“Of course you do,” he says, and he’s smiling at her in her favorite way, the softness and kindness that makes Cass know that she wasn’t lying to Brenda, when she called him her grandfather. “So let’s show you your new headquarters then, shall we?”

He leads her into the house.

* * *

**_Now_ **

Batgirl—Wayne—Cassandra?—Batgirl, no, she’s Batgirl is probably close behind her, so when Talon emerges from the tunnel, she breaks into the nearest house that seems currently unoccupied.

She scrambles through a wardrobe, stripping out of her Talon uniform into the oversized jeans and ratty sweater she finds. She cuffs the legs of the jeans several times, and steals a belt to fasten them around her waist, before slowly, carefully, removing her mask.

She stares at the face in the mirror.

Blonde hair. Blue eyes. A nose with a crooked set to it… a nose that… shouldn’t be crooked… because a Talon doesn’t scar… a Talon heals all wounds. Even her wrist is already back in alignment, the bones clicking softly as they reset.

… why wouldn’t her nose have healed?

“Stephanie,” she whispers, touching her nose, feeling the bump in it. “Stephanie… Brown.”

She turns her head to one side so she doesn’t vomit on her boots.

Why… why is she reacting like this?”

She presses her bare hands against her eyes, trying to gain control of the pounding of her temples, the churning of her stomach. She feels cold, but she’s sweating, shaking from head to toe as if going through an adrenaline rush, but Talon’s don’t _get_ adrenaline rushes, because the crash is too dangerous.

She’s Talon. She’s perfect. She’s the hand of the Court, reaching out to do their will—she—

She stuffs her costume into a backpack she finds laying around, and climbs back out the window.

She’s… she’s not sure where to go.

Back to the Court, of course, she should go back there, tell them about Cassandra Wayne, tell them that she’s found Batgirl…

She collapses against the wall, tears streaming down her face, shaking as she tries to…

Tries to what? There’s nothing but the Court. It doesn’t matter if she doesn’t want to, of course she wants to, she’s loyal, she’s perfect, she is the light in the darkness, the Court’s will made manifest, their weapon against the chaos.

Back to Gotham. She… she needs to go back to Gotham.

“Are you okay?”

A young girl, with dark skin and large eyes, crouches in front of her.

“You’re crying,” she says. She looks worried. She looks… concerned.

Talon opens her mouth. She doesn’t like that expression on the child’s face… she wants it to go away.

“I’m fine,” she says, and something about her own voice sounds strange.

“Are you sure? I’m Nell,” she says. “Do you need any help?”

“No,” she whispers. The next words come without thought. “Thank you.”

Nell sits down next to her. “Are you having a bad day?”

A strange desire to laugh bubbles up in Talon’s throat. “I… suppose.” She frowns at the girl. “You… shouldn’t talk to strangers.” Now where did that come from?

“But you’re hurt,” the girl says, patiently. “And you’re crying. I had to help. It’s what Batgirl or Robin would do.” 

“Not… Batman?” She touches her cheek and finds, to her surprise, that her cheeks are wet. Nell had been right.

“I mean, he probably would too?” Nell says. “But I know Batgirl. She’s really nice! And back when Mom and I lived in Gotham, Robin saved me. Not the current Robin. But the old one! The girl Robin. She was _amazing_. And Batgirl was her best friend, that’s what everyone says. And Robin was really nice to me, when my Mom and I needed her help.”

“I… thought Robin was a boy,” Talon says. There have been… three. Three boys. No girl. She’d know if there had been a girl Robin, wouldn’t she?”

“Nope!” Nell moves closer to her. “She died a few years ago now, in the War. It was very sad. And then her dad was on the news, talking about how she’d been Spoiler before that—I’d never seen Spoiler before, but her costume was really cool, I wish I could have seen it in person.”

Purple, a flash of purple out of the corner of her eye.

Talon stared down at her jeans, and watched dark spots appear on them, one after another.

“They said her name was Stephanie Brown,” Nell continues, oblivious. “She was brave and nice and _really_ good at fighting, because Batman let her be Robin. When I grow up, maybe I’ll be Robin. Or Batgirl. Being Batgirl would also be cool.”

“Don’t. Not… not her.” Talon says, shaking her head jerkily. “She—she died.”

“I mean,” Nell says quietly. “Lots of people died. My dad died. But just because she died doesn’t mean she wasn’t brave. Or a hero.”

“She failed,” Talon snaps, jerking away from Nell’s touch. “She failed, it was _her fault_ —”

There’s something in her throat, lodged in her airways. Her vision is blurry, perhaps from lack of oxygen, but she can’t seem to expel whatever it is, and instead all she can do is make big, shuddering gasps.

“It wasn’t,” Nell says, firmly. “It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t…” Nell reaches out and takes Talon’s hand. “Spoiler? It wasn’t your fault.”

Talon jerks her hand back, like Nell’s small hand burns. “What—”

“It’s you!” Nell says, her eyes wide. “I _knew_ it was you! You look just like Miss Brown at the Park Row clinic—”

Talon gets to her feet and flees, once again, away from that name, away from the kind, earnest eyes.

She needs to get back to Gotham.

* * *

**_Then_ **

“I have to go,” Onyx says, one day after patrol. She wipes her forehead off with her hand, glistening with sweat.

“Where?” Cass asks, stretching.

“Can’t tell you,” Onyx says, apologetically. “Long story short? A friend of mine has a kid, who needs a bodyguard and a defense instructor. I’ll probably be out of touch for a year. She’s some bigshot CEO, but she’s worried. Family stuff, I think.”

Cass frowns. “You’ll… be back?”

“Of course,” Onyx says. She puts a hand on Cass’s shoulder. “You know… I knew your mom, right?”

Cass’s breath freezes in her lungs.

She’s _known_ of course, but it’s one thing to _know_ , and another thing to hear someone _say it_.

“Yes,” she says.

Onyx nudges her. “It’s okay. I’ve fought by your side for six months now, Baby Girl. You’re not her, Cassie. You’re not David either. You’re you, through and through. Cassandra Cain, the Batgirl, the best damn fighter I’ve ever met. And you’re going to be _amazing_. Hell.” She smiles, bright and brilliant. “You already are.”

* * *

**_Now_ **

Rubber on her tongue, pain in her stomach, blood beneath her nails, ozone in her nose.

“Talon, report,” a woman says in her ear. No, not a woman. _The_ woman.

“Found—Batgirl,” she whispers. Her breath was rapid and uneven, shaking her entire body with every gasp. “In the tunnels. Had to—retreat. Avoid capture.”

True, that was true, it—

“Wipe her,” the man says, worriedly. “I think something’s been triggered—”

“There’s nothing _to_ trigger,” the doctor says. “She’s empty, I’m telling you, blank as a slate. If you knocked on her head, all you’d hear are echoes.”

Talon opens her mouth, and the doctor places the rubber bit in.

“But fine, we’ll clean her up a little. It is time for a proper raid on Wayne Manor.”

“Batman will know we’re coming,” the man says, as the doctor leads her to the chair.

“Which is why we’re sending our best Talon at the head of our army,” the woman says. “The whole family dies. An example. Wayne and all of his bastards.”

“Not Grayson,” the man reminds her. “We need him alive—”

“Screw Cobb and his plans!” The woman snaps. “Grayson’s too old—”

“Shh,” the doctor says to her, and she realizes she’s crying again, as he straps her into the chair.

All she can do, as the pain runs through her and her extremities go numb, as she twitches and convulses in that damned chair…

The only thing she can do is scream.

* * *

**_Then_ **

It’s … too far.

Too far to her apartment.

Blood. There’s so much blood. So much blood that she can’t think, can’t concentrate. She needs to just… sit down. For a moment. Babs is yelling in her ear, telling her that someone… is coming? She thinks. She’s not sure. It’s hard to listen.

She stumbles on the rooftop.

Oh!

She’s knows this place.

It’s safe here.

She half-climbs, half tumbles down the fire escape.

The door is locked. Cass frowns. She tries again. When that doesn’t work she shrugs and is about to kick the glass in.

“Batgirl?” A voice says, inside the place, and the door wrenches open. “What are you—”

Cass falls forward, into Brenda’s arms, nearly knocking her friend down in the process.

“What—oh my _God_ , is that blood? Stay still, okay, I need to—”

“Mm,” Cass groans. She reaches up and tries to remove her mask, which is hard to breathe through, with all the blood.

“What are you—oh my God _Cass_? Oh God, oh shit, oh fuck—um, stay with me, okay Cassie? You’re going to be—you’re going to be okay, I promise, just… stay away.”

There’s a thump and a door being pushed open, the bell to Brenda’s shop tinkling in the distance.

“Fuck, it’s worse than I thought.”

“Can you help her?” Brenda says. “I—there’s so much blood—”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Dinah’s voice is calm. “I’ve got a chopper on the roof, we’re getting her to the doctor.”

“I’m coming with you,” Brenda says.

“Miss—”

“She’s my friend! I—I need to know if she’s okay!”

“Brenda,” Cass says, helpfully, because she doesn’t think Black Canary knows her name.

“Yes, I’m here,” Brenda squeezes her hand.

“Fine,” Dinah says. “Okay, help me get her up the stairs—”

“You better survive this, because I’m _so_ going to yell at you later,” Brenda hisses in Cass’s ear, as Cass’s world goes grey and fuzzy, caught up in the whirring of a helicopter’s blades.

* * *

**_Now_ **

Talon kneels before the Court of Owls. The beautiful masks twinkle above her like stars.

“You are to be the commander of this mission,” the woman says.

“Is that wise?” Whispers someone who Talon does not know, her mask black onyx and pearls. “She only just needed to be wiped—”

“The Bat will be there,” the man laughs. “It will be the Robin of Talons, our greatest weapon, who undoes all of his work.”

“Talon, dismissed,” the Court says.

Talon stands. Behind her, the Talons stand.

Twenty of them altogether; they have all been stirred for this fight, to make an example of Wayne and his.

Talon turns to face the others.

Nineteen identical masks stare back at her. She could not tell one from the other; if her own reflection was mixed amongst them, she would never know. Each Talon is one and the same, stamped from the mold.

Twenty immortal soldiers.

It seems to her to be overkill, for a man and his children, even with the Bats and Birds defending them. But she does not question the Court.

She turns and walks away, and the others spread out behind her, a deadly arrow of purpose.

Their Court beneath Old Gotham is a long way from Bristol, where Wayne and his brood live. They go to the hangars, to fetch the planes.

She touches the panel, briefly.

It… does not look familiar. Shouldn’t there be… more colors? Shouldn’t the seats be more comfortable, shouldn’t there be seatbelts… shouldn’t there be a… bat…

She blinks, and shakes her head, the memory falling to the side.

“You,” she points at the Talon closest. “Fly.”

They all blink. “Not you?” One of the others inquires.

“I don’t know how.”

They seem puzzled by this, but she sees no point in explaining that she had not earned it yet, he had been very clear on that. She needed to—

What did she need to do?

She couldn’t drive until she was thirty. She… remembers that part.

… how old is she now?

She looks at her gloved hands, and frowns.

The Talons get in the plane, and she gets into the passenger seat, where she belongs, and she blinks at her own reflection in the windshield, because she thought she was only wearing a domino mask, like the others…

But no, the others are wearing the same as her… exactly the same. She thought… wasn’t she allowed to change hers? Make it special?

… that would be ridiculous, she’s Talon. They are all the same. All four—no. Not four. Twenty.

The approach is familiar.

Behind them, the signal, before them, the Manor.

She frowns, as the pilot turns the wrong way—but no, of course it’s the right way. Why would he head towards the lake? There would be no way into the house from there.

They are following the brief.

The Batwing appears in front of them, and Talon leans forward, all thoughts of tunnels beneath the Manor pushed to the back of her mind. “The Bat! Alpha Wing, knock them out of the sky!”

To leap out of a plane without a parachute is nothing to a Talon.

Five of her people leap from the plane, digging daggers into the sides of Batman’s vehicle, causing the thing to wobble treacherously.

“Bravo Wing, front assault!”

“What are you doing?” One of the Charlie Talons demand. “If you attack directly, Wayne will run to a panic room!”

“He won’t,” she says, staring at the Batwing. She can’t tell who’s inside.

“We’re trained for the panic room anyways,” one of the Delta Talons points out. “One of our people designed the thing.”

“He won’t be in the panic room,” she repeats. “None of them will be. Maybe the butler.”

“They woke you up too early.”

“And you’re still frost-tipped,” she replies. “I’ve studied them. I know them. Wayne won’t run from us.”

Suddenly, a loud, piercing noise rings through the air.

All of them cry out and place their hands over their ears, hidden as they are beneath their masks.

The windshield, reinforced as it is, cracks, then breaks, then _shatters_ , and the ten of them and the plane begin to fall to Earth.

“Jump!” She finally yells, as the presence of mind returns and the sound stops. “Get free of the crash!”

All of them scramble to do so, knowing as well as she that while they can survive a crash, the body of the plane might crumple around them, trapping them and rendering them useless.

Talon is the last to leap, sparing one last glance at the Batwing above.

Falling is painful. She throws out her arm, on some sort of instinct, but there is no grapple, no familiar tug to pull her to safety. Why would there be? When has there ever been?

She is Talon.

No one saves her.

She is not for saving, or even surviving.

She is for killing.

Her heart stops when she hits the ground, the jagged pierce of her broken ribs going right through the vital organ.

Blood pools in her mouth and her chest stops moving.

She hears a woman scream.

With a shuddering breath, she gets to her feet. Her bones snap and crack as they pop back into place, the blood congealing against her skin. She swallows the blood, not daring to remove her mask to spit it out.

She strides toward the Manor, this unfamiliar edifice—at least, unfamiliar from this direction, it’s not like they ever let her use the front door—when a crossbow bolt sinks into her shoulder.

Talon stumbles back with a hiss of pain, as Huntress stands there.

“Is it her?” Someone yells in the distance.

“Can’t tell! There’s too fucking many of them!”

She rips out the bolt and charges, a knife in her hand.

A second loud noise—a sonic cry—hits her from the side, and she is thrown sideways.

She catches herself, like she learned in gymnastics class, rolling forward and falling into a combat position.

Black Canary and Huntress. Batman must truly be worried for him to have called them in.

They are not her targets.

“Grenade!” Huntress yells, as Talon throws it through the air and takes off for the Manor at a run.

She crashes in through the huge ballroom window, and somehow isn’t surprised to find Batman there, two of her Talons at his feet.

She leaps at him, a knife in hand, prepared to sink it into his shoulder, but Nightwing intersects her, throwing her to the ground.

“The mask!” Batman calls.

“I _know_!”

Talon twists in his grip, but he gives her no room to dislocate or break anything to get out. He shifts his grip on her to only one hand, his other hand flailing for her mask.

She thrashes and squirms, as cover for her palming her next knife.

She slides it between his ribs.

He cries out, and she leverages him off her, before spinning and grabbing him by the hair and holding a knife to his throat.

Batman stands there, looking at her. Her people are bound and unmasked, unconscious but not dead. They will wake, and be loose soon, but her mind blinks for a minute, confused, at the sight of their faces.

“Where’s Wayne?” She demands, the knife resting a millimeter above the armored neckline of Nightwing’s suit.

“In the panic room,” he says.

“You’re _lying_.”

She grits her teeth. “Then I’ll start with him. Your first.”

Something changes in his expression.

“Stephanie,” he says.

“ _You always use my name in the field_!” She snaps. “I’m not—”

Her grip on Nightwing loosens.

“What—”

She cries out as Nightwing breaks her arm to get out of her hold. Her knife falls to the ground.

He takes hold of her mask and _rips_ , despite the knife still between his ribs.

Screaming in blind fury, she throws herself at him, but Batman grabs her. “Stephanie! Stop!”

“I’m—that’s not my _name_!” She twists and sends him flying, and she runs, deeper into the Manor.

As she runs she sees her Talons battling Onyx, Lark, Robin, even Azrael seems to have come out of retirement for this. Catwoman stands before her for a moment, calling out that same, awful name but Talon knocks her aside.

None of them are her targets, none of them have _answers_.

Every inch of her is on fire. Her mind is ablaze, impossible memories overlapping with her reality. She thinks she knows the color of Catwoman’s eyes, knows the taste of her tea, the sound of her laugh. She thinks that she knows how Batman looks when he smiles, and the way his voice changes—when would it change?

She finds herself in a room with a piano and a grandfather clock.

Her hands reach for the clock on instinct.

She…

She’s been here before.

There’s no other explanation for the way her hands move without her mind doing a single thing, moving the hands of the grandfather clock into a certain position, and how she starts moving before the clock even finishes swinging forward.

A cave.

A large, glorious cave, with a dinosaur and a giant penny—

And two glass cases.

And Batgirl, standing in the center of it all, waiting for her.

“I knew you’d come,” she says.

The mask comes off.

Cassandra Cain looks up at her.

“Stephanie,” she says. She _pleads_. “I don’t want to fight you.”

Talon says nothing.

**_End Part II_ **

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, please drop me a line, either in the comments here, or over on Tumblr, where I'm @[secretlystephaniebrown](http://secretlystephaniebrown.tumblr.com)!


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